Radio
by Reigning Rats
Summary: The evolution of a relationship does not always show outward signs of change. Russia/America.


"Hey, hey, over here!" America called, waving his arms wildly above his head.

The airport was crowded as all hell; travelers going to and fro, trying to find loved ones or just going about their way. The swarm ebbed and flowed in an ever-moving tide. Faces blurred and shapes seemed to blend into one another with only the seats and various immobile objects keeping their shape. The whole thing would have been disorientating had America not been used to it. Russia certainly couldn't say the same.

While he had been to many a crowded airport, the get-it-done faster pace of the American people always threw him for a loop. There was hardly human interaction as teens typed away on cell phones and adults chattered on mobile devices. He never liked American airports but St. Paul International was, at least, better than John F. Kennedy International or LAX. For that, Russia was grateful.

He caught sight of America, now jumping excitedly, and couldn't help a wry, soft smile. The man was always entertaining, whether he meant to be or not. Not for the first time, Russia found himself grateful for their renewed relations. While things still seemed awkward for him, America seemed to have recovered famously from their previously less than amiable antics.

"Russia! Over here!" America whined.

He was one of the only unmoving figures in the crowd. For a moment, Russia just stood, feigning ignorance as he glanced around. The huff in America's voice as he called for Russia once more was audible even across the din. Finally, Russia allowed his gaze to settle on the younger nation as the man pushed and weaved his way through the crowd. Really, how did America think he could ever miss that head of golden locks and indomitable energy?

"Ah, there you are, America," Russia greeted pleasantly, bobbing his head for moment as a way of recognition.

America would have none of his polite mannerisms. The teen laughed brightly and grabbed Russia's wrist, fully intent on dragging him towards the baggage claim area. The silence between them did not settle well so America set right away to chattering on uselessly on the various activities he had planned. Something about an aquarium, Underwater Adventures of something of the like. There was talk about various amusement parks, a little blip of how they couldn't visit one of the parks because they were too old for most of the rides, or, as America put it, his "heroic self can't be seen riding the chair swing, even if it is a sort of bad ass ride and super cool".

Still talking, America released Russia's wrist once they reached their destination. His mouth never ceased moving even as he claimed Russia's bag and continued moving towards the exit. All the while, Russia followed silently, smiling shyly and doing his best to keep up with the tirade of information and rants on various subjects, which America found the need to voice. All of it was nostalgic to a point. He could remember a time, long ago, when America dominated the conversational aspect of their relationship just as he was doing now.

"Man, anyway, you're totally going to love this week. Cross my heart and hope to die," America finished.

He approached a black something or other. Russia couldn't place the exact model and make, only knowing that it was a sports car and somehow that suited America so well. America worked quickly to pop the trunk and deposit Russia's things into the vehicle before bouncing over to the driver's side. Russia was content to wait, hand hanging just over the door handle as he waited for America to perhaps calm down and unlock the doors.

No such event came. Instead, America stood by his own door, one arm on the roof of the car, and he pinned Russia with a cocky smile, "So, what do you think?"

The question was rather open ended in Russia's opinion. There were a number of things America could have been referring to: the car, their plans, Minnesota. It would have been wise to question just what America meant, but the setting summer sun was beating down and heat radiated off the dark shape of the car he stood beside. Russia settled for rolling his shoulders in a lazy upward motion and smiling wistfully. That was enough for America as he cheered and unlocked the automobile.

Russia slid carefully into the leather seat even as America plopped down beside him. Surprisingly enough, the interior was far roomier than he had first thought it would be. The front seats had both been pushed back as far as they could go, the back rests leaning at a rather precarious angle, which Russia didn't entirely appreciate. America either liked it that way or took no notice as he put the key into the ignition and began pulling out of the parking lot.

"It's really cool to get to hang with you again, you know?" America began once more. His attention had been stolen away by the crowded and cramped streets of St. Paul and had only been relinquished once he turned onto the interstate. "It's been a while since we could just do fun stuff together."

"Your definition of fun may differ from mine, America," Russia supplied, staring out the window. He didn't doubt they would at least have some fun if both parties could keep from arguing; he just didn't feel the need to voice that thought.

Russia heard America pouting more than he saw it. His eyes were trained on the other cars they passed and the throng heading in the opposite direction. There were always so many vehicles in America. More often than not, Russia saw only one occupant in each car. What a waste, he thought ruefully. Just like Americans, like America. The notion made his smile grow.

America's voice became a listless drone to Russia as he stared silently out the window. He wasn't ignoring America per se, just caught up in the rather peaceful atmosphere he had found himself in. The sun was still in the process of setting, casting hues of gold, maroon, and violet across the cloudless sky. The air was thick and humid, hot and oppressive, even as it pressed in through America's open window. The static of America's voice and the outside world served as white noise. Russia chalked the pleasant, lazy mood all up to being incredibly jet lagged.

The city was left behind just as the sun gave its final farewell before dropping below the horizon and leaving the faintest of glows in its wake. Russia continued watching the cars on the interstate. Their lights made for a dazzling display as they whizzed by on the road, glaringly beautiful and seeping into one another. The air was cooling but still just as suffocating and heavy as it had been before. It was like a blanket of warmth and a visual lullaby; he found himself succumbing to the gentle tug of sleep. Russia's eyes slid shut just as America started up the radio, the music deafening but welcome.

It was some time before he awoke. Cracking his eyes open, Russia found the comforting headlights of traffic gone and replaced with utter twilight. The road beneath them was dipping and rising. It was like riding a wave, fluid and fast moving as America tapped the steering wheel and hummed the song playing. As Russia sat up, neck aching from the uncomfortable position he had been in, and noticed they were somewhere in the country. There were so many stars and the moon shone brightly behind a thin veil of clouds.

America glanced over, seeing his companion was finally awake. With practiced ease, America reached over to the radio and toyed with the device as he slowed the car. Russia glanced over and quirked a brow in silent questioning but America wasn't looking his way. In the soft nightglow, Russia could see him grinning widely even as America's eyes were trained on the road ahead. Eventually, the car was slowed to a stop as America pulled off to the side and shut off the headlights.

"What are you doing?" Russia questioned, defensive.

This was an unusual development that sent Russia on edge. Stopping in the middle of nowhere at night didn't seem to be the most kosher thing. After all, wasn't that the setting for so many American horror movies? Silently, Russia was playing with the idea that America was going to somehow produce an axe and attempt to slaughter him. The thought nearly made him giggle.

America didn't answer as he sat back and fingers still played with the radio. One last tap and America turned to face Russia, still grinning. The situation was awkward at best for the nation as he set his lips into an unamused thin line. Just what was America trying to do?

Faintly, Russia placed the song playing as one by a blond woman always singing about drinking and sex or something of the such. Why America settled on such an artist, he had no idea but was curious to find out. In his own mind, there was no way anything between the two of them would happen. Decades of tension had eaten away at a once tentative friendship like acid. Only recently had the repairs began to once more bridge the fissure between their countries.

All at once, America climbed from his spot in the driver's side and swung his legs on either side of Russia's seat, settling comfortably onto Russia thighs. His arms came up to rest of the seat back as he pressed forward and Russia pressed back. A pair of chapped lips found their way to Russia's jaw. Russia's hands came up and seized America's shoulders, fully intent on pushing the nation off him. They weren't close enough yet to engage in such behavior, and Russia certainly wasn't comfortable with it.

"Come on, it's been a while since I've gotten laid," America pleaded, voice dropping. The nation's hands came up the take hold of Russia's. "Can't tell me you didn't miss this."

In truth, Russia hadn't missed it. He had hated America far too much for thoughts of their old sexual adventures to even ghost through his mind. Russia had thought the notion was returned more so by America. After all, McCarthyism had seized the entire nation, including its personification, in a vice-like grip of a second Red Scare. Apparently, he had been wrong. That, or America just lacked some of the old morals he had once embodied. Russia voicelessly agreed with the second of the two solutions.

"America, no," Russia replied flatly, trying to get his hands from America's grip. The hands wrapped around his own tightened, holding him in place. Damn America's strength. "Get off, comrade."

"Quit being a cock block," America laughed, pulling Russia's hands from his shoulders and instead guiding them to his waist.

America's mouth set back to work as he leaned forward and nibbled on the lobe of Russia's ear, rolling the flesh between his teeth before sucking and languidly rolling his hips, "If our bosses can share some fries like best buds, we should be able to get our rocks off together."

"America-"

"Shut up."

To ensure his command was heeded, America pressed his lips to Russia's insistently, unrelenting. He wouldn't back down. What America wanted, America got. Russia was a big man, strong, but he was stronger and damn well knew it. His hands never left the other nation's, just in case another attempt to push him off arose.

His hips continued rocking into Russia as the song played in the background. Agonizingly slow, Russia began to respond to the lips moving against his own. The gesture was hesitant and unsure. It had been so long since they were intimate with one another. The kiss enveloped that unpracticed air as their teeth clashed occasionally and mouths mashed together to a simple rhythm was set in time with the fluid motions of America's body. Hands began to wander as one golden skinned limb snaked up the hem of Russia's sweater. Those deft fingers danced across Russia's pale flesh, following the contours of muscle and bones as they worked their way upward.

With one hand free, Russia joined America by slipping his hand beneath America's t-shirt, letting the appendage splay across the others back. He rolled his hips up to meet America's movements. The friction was intoxicating and teasing.

As the chorus came to a crescendo, Russia found America to be moving in time with the music. It would have been comical had a hand not made it's way to the more sensitive regions of his chest and lips to the sensitive flesh just beneath his jaw. He could feel America holding back, trying desperately not to suck or bite. America was being careful not to leave marks and the consideration made him grin softly. Well, if America was going to be so thoughtful, he deserved a reward.

Russia slipped his other hand from its position on America's hip and went right to rubbing the need pressing against his own through the denim fabric. America's head tipped back in appreciation, a sigh escaping his hips as he bucked into Russia's hands. He was already hard and unraveling. Fingers turned clumsy from the sudden attention to more sensitive areas tried to unfasten Russia's dress pants. The nation got nowhere and America growled low in his throat as he fumbled with the bottom.

"So eager," Russia purred, squeezing his hand ever so slightly.

America's breath hitched as he finally got the bottom undone and he set to work on pulling down the zipper. "Shut it. You're gonna ruin the mood."

That was right. America hated talking during sex. He had almost forgotten that quirk. During their first encounters of the less than appropriate nation, Russia had been unfathomably grateful for the silence. It was one of the only times America stopped running his mouth incessantly.

Russia complied, though he couldn't help adding in another quip just to annoy the man in his lap. America growled again, ducking his head to once again to work at the minimal amount of exposed skin on his neck. It was Russia's turn to tip his head back as America ravaged his body. There was a hand in his under garments, wrapped loosely around his arousal and stroking painfully slow. The other was toying with the nub on his chest, working it between the rough pads of America's fingers. America's mouth worked tirelessly at his throat, nibbling and kissing and sucking but ever mindful not to leave a mark.

He almost felt one upped until he began to mimic America. The junction of America's neck and shoulders was exposed, bared for Russia to attack as he bent forward and worked his own hand into America's jeans. The nation sitting on him hummed in appreciation, hand stuttering for a moment as Russia grabbed hold and set a less tedious pace. America followed suit, quickening his hand as Russia moved his free hand from America's back to his bottom, kneading the fabric and flesh.

From beside his ear, America commanded lowly, "Faster."

Russia smiled sweetly as he all but stopped and just squeezed the overly sensitive head. The action earned him a growl. He wasn't one to be ordered around but couldn't deny he had been coaxed into wanting release just as much as America as tension built within the pit of belly, making his toes curl in his boots. America was coming close to his end; the tell tale breathy sighs from beside his ear could indicate nothing else.

He quickened the pace, pleased that America did the same as he felt that tension coiling tighter as it began to descend lower in his abdomen. He wouldn't last much longer either. It certainly had been far too long.

America's breath hitched as his back arched and eyes squeezed shut. Warmth pooled over Russia's hand as he continued the necessary up and down motions even as America rocked himself into Russia's palm. A darkened violet gaze found its way to the face of the man above him, staring at the parted lips and thin sheen of perspiration clinging to America's brow and neck. The sight was marvelous. Moonlight flooded in from the front, shadowing most but highlighting the best of America's features. The nation seemed almost ethereal as rapture boiled over his features.

The sight was breathtaking and erotic, and Russia found himself swiftly following after America as his head hit the headrest and he released into America's hand. The tension uncoiled and spilled throughout the entirety of his body, engulfing him and making his head spin from ecstasy and exhaustion.

Wordlessly, America pulled his hand free, smiling carelessly as he reached into the backseat and pulled out a forlorn looking sweatshirt. He wiped his hands clean and handed the garment to Russia. The nation took it gratefully and wiped his hands as well as he could before tossing it into the backseat once more. America redid the fly on his own pants before climbing back into the driver side seat. His hand went to the radio, switching off the repeat setting it had previously been on.

The car hummed back to life as America pulled onto the road once more and began to drive. Russia was left to shift uncomfortably as his pants grew incredibly cool and sticky. He always hated that part of such encounters. The shower at America's place would be a welcome sight, as well as the guest room he expected to be staying in. Weariness crept up once more as the low hum of music filtered through the whip of the wind through America's window even as Russia's mind refused to stop processing information.

Their encounter just moments before had been awkward and unexpected, but he wasn't remorseful. Despite being a nation, he was still partly human and his body had been aching for physical contact of the kind. A nagging thought refused to leave him, though. The whole ordeal had been pleasant enough, leaving him sated, but there was a business-like, quid pro quo feeling to all of it. America had refused to look him in the eye, even when he was lost within the haze of climax. There were no loving or caring caresses, only needy and greedy limbs trying to find purchase on another's body.

Though he would loathe to admit it, Russia somewhat missed the times of old when whispered sweet nothings and touches just to touch were common place and all things seemed at ease and aligned with the soft glow of the moments. This meeting of needs had been just that, a need yearning for a need. It was as simple as that, Russia reasoned. There shouldn't have been a reason for the hollowness settling in his chest or the ache dully creeping up. America didn't seem bothered by it; in fact, he seemed rejuvenated and re-energized as he sung along to whatever nameless pop beat was playing.

Maybe they could recapture what they once had.

Maybe, one day, America would feel the same tug towards familiarity.

Maybe, just maybe, America would outwardly display the emotions dwelling deep within Russia and they could once more engage in the pathetically sweet mannerisms of centuries past.

Maybe.

And maybe was enough to settle Russia's mind as jet lag and satisfaction lulled him into another restful sleep while America drove on through the cooling Minnesota night.

* * *

**A/N: So, I was thinking of turning this into a multi-chapter fic where each shows or depicts another step in their relationship sexually. Like, the way which they engage in the dirty and the acts committed while gettin' nasty show how their relationship warps while they're with each other. What do you guys think? Of course there'll _other_ things than pron. It'll just _mostly_ be pronz. Oh well, not much to say about this one; I don't particularly like it: at all. Read, review.**


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